


if they want him, they’re gonna have to fight me

by platoapproved



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Feral dragon baby Hamid, Other, Protectiveness, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27360916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platoapproved/pseuds/platoapproved
Summary: "The affected creature is unable to use Intelligence– or Charisma-based skills, cast spells, understand language, or communicate coherently. Still, it knows who its friends are and can follow them and even protect them." - from the online Pathfinder Guide, on the spell 'Feeblemind'.
Relationships: Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan/Skraak
Comments: 7
Kudos: 48





	if they want him, they’re gonna have to fight me

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from 'Night Terror' by Laura Marling. Thanks so much to Coign for the beta! Please let me know if there are any tags I missed that you think ought to be applied. 💕

Neither of them had been ready for a fight. It had seemed safe, this little inn where they’d all holed up in Svalbard, all roaring fires and thick quilts and cups of hot mulled wine. Skraak had assumed, without consciously realizing it, that this little island was too far from the rest of the world and its problems for them to reach here.

But when the door had buckled and three cultists had come rushing in, Skraak had thought to himself that he should’ve known better. How many times would it all have to come crashing down around him before he learned: safety was never anything but a comforting lie.

Hamid had shoved them behind him the moment those hooded figures broke through, and Skraak had just… frozen. They didn’t have their weapon, they weren’t wearing their armor, and their mind went totally blank. A horrible, _familiar_ blankness. The terror was in them like a paralytic, rooting them to the spot, making them numb and mute and motionless.

Skraak watched as Hamid moved his hands, those complicated patterns that told them he was about to cast—until a spell caught him mid-motion and he froze, eyes wide, mouth dropping open in silent shock. Skraak’s heart stuttered with terror as Hamid crumpled to the ground; he looked so small, beside the looming figures in the dark cloaks. He didn’t know for a moment if Hamid was alive or dead, and there were sounds coming from all around, from the other rooms of the inn, crashes and cries and clangs. The sounds of combat. The others were in danger, and Skraak wouldn’t be there to protect them, because he couldn’t even protect himself.

On the floor, Hamid surged up, springing for the closest cultist. Not casting, not even pulling out that little crossbow that Skraak knew he carried around. He simply leapt from the floor and onto the closest one of them, sending him toppling back to the floor. Hamid crouched atop him, moving strangely, and Skraak couldn’t tell what he was doing. The cry that the cultist let out was blood-curdling and very brief. Skraak only understood what had happened when Hamid whirled around, and they saw his face slick with blood.

His features were sharper somehow, recognizable but _wrong_ , all that round softness gone from his cheeks and eyes. They watched as a bright metallic gloss shivered its way over Hamid’s skin, scales raising like goosebumps in its wake. The gore was smeared across his mouth and chin and nose, but Skraak saw beneath it, just for a moment, a flash of fangs.

He was _beautiful_.

Skraak only had a moment to look before Hamid was launching at the next cultist, claws sinking into his eyes. The last one rushed over, tried to pry Hamid off, but all he got for it was three of his fingers bitten off and spat out on the ground. That one retreated, giving Hamid the freedom he needed to rip out the blinded one’s throat, yanking his head from side to side with ferocious determination, snarling as he did so.

Once that cultist was no longer moving, Hamid let go and moved off him, crossing floor on all fours, his shoulders hunched, his whole body taut as a coiled spring. Hamid’s claws clattered softly against the wooden floor as he started to pace, keeping himself between Skraak and the door.

 _Guarding_ them.

The sounds of combat from all around grew fainter, but there was another noise that Skraak couldn’t place at first, until he realized it was Hamid making it. He was growling—a low, constant sound, resonant and lovely.

At the end of every circuit, Hamid turned to look back and check on Skraak—to make sure he was safe. The blood had started to drip down his neck, bright against the brassy sheen of scales. It was beautiful. _Hamid_ was exquisite like this, feral and blood-drenched. As Skraak watched, the tiniest trickles of steam began to rise from his nostrils.

There were voices calling out now from the inn around them. Skraak recognized them. Zolf first and loudest, asking if anyone was still fighting, if anyone needed to be healed. The others sounding off: Azu sounding winded, Cel vouching for themself and all the kobolds except Skraak.

With a lurch, they realized they should speak.

Their voice was a hoarse rasp as they called out:

“I’m here. Hamid’s here. We’re—safe.”


End file.
